


Win/Loss Ratio

by MistCover



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Coming Out, Flash Fic, Gen, Hana is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 04:48:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11936643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistCover/pseuds/MistCover
Summary: A flash fic I wrote in 40 minutes because I've been not writing.D.Va has something important to tell Tracer.





	Win/Loss Ratio

“Come on, Hana,” I say to myself, pacing back and forth in my room. “You’re number one. You’re the top gamer in the world. You can _do this_.” The floor is cool beneath my feet, almost surgically clean and a dull gray. I inhale slowly, forcing my fists to release from the balls they’ve been clenched in. The mirror affixed to my wall shows me my own face drawn up tight. There’s no blood in my features. I look dull, flat, with dark bags hanging under my eyes. Next to it is a promotional photo of me, looking fresh and smiling bright, with rosy cheeks and dewy lips. _I play to win!_ It’s become my battle cry, my personal mantra.

“There is no winning here.” I roll my neck, popping my spine, and get to work on fixing that reflection. I dab concealer under my eyes and foundation on my cheeks, smoothing my blotchy skin. I give myself a generous helping of blush, blending it out until I look younger, fresher, happier. Like how I used to look, before MEKA. A little lip gloss and just a touch of natural eye shadow and I’m looking myself again. It’s important to look good. There’s alway a camera around every corner in my life, and the people don’t want their international superstar looking like she’s been up for the last day and a half, worrying herself sick. I make sure my hair is presentable, then walk to my door.

I stop with my hand halfway to the knob. Am I sure? How can I be sure? I’ve never even- I haven’t had any experience, not like this. I’m an idol, a star. Even one person finding out could be a disaster for my public image. And if my image goes down, Korea’s morale goes down. I owe it to my country to stay mostly imaginary. I’m a blank document, an empty bottle, a clean canvas, just waiting to be painted on however they see fit. Whoever “they” are. StarCraft players? The Korean public? Overwatch fanatics? Possibly all of the above, and more.

My hand drops. I hang my head, trying very hard not to cry.

“Hana?” A chipper, heavily accented voice comes over my com link. “Is everything alright, love?” Lena “Tracer” Oxton is probably the only person besides myself who is always cheerful on this drab base.

“Yes!” I reply. My voice sounds thick and rough. “I’m so sorry I’m late, I’ll be there- be there in a minute.” For a long moment, there is nothing, not even the chime that lets me know Tracer has closed her end of the line.  
“I’ll be right there!” Tracer says.

I don’t let myself startle when there is a knock moments later. The door opens, and I am face to face with Tracer. My heart speeds up until I can feel it bounding in my temples. She’s got perfectly windswept hair, as always, and has her accelerator slung over one shoulder like a messenger bag. She is perfectly chic, even dressed casually, her stance relaxed and confident. I force myself to imitate that emotion, pulling myself up and crossing my arms over my chest.

“You said you needed to talk with me?” Tracer asks. I step back one long stride.

“Please come in.” I gesture to my small room. Tracer arches one eyebrow but does so, leaning against the wall next to my desk. I close and lock my door, then check the lock, then check it again. I close my curtains, blocking out my view to the ocean and the afternoon sunlight. “Could you toss me that tape, please?” I ask, motioning to a roll on the desk, inches away from her hand. Tracer’s face sinks into an even deeper confusion, lips pursed, brow now furrowed. She grabs the duct tape and tosses it to me. I systematically check every corner of the room, and manage to dig up two cameras. I tape over both of them. I walk to my bed, strip it of pillows, and shove the pillows over the tape, trying to muffle any audio recording Overwatch is possibly doing.

“You know, if this is top secret, it’s probably best to talk to Winston first,” Tracer says. I shake my head.

“I do have a secret.” I tape over my webcam. “It’s nothing Winston could use.”

“Alright…” Tracer sounds apprehensive. I whirl around to face her, holding back the fear and the tears. Tracer’s eyes flash with fear, and I realize I’ve made fists again. She knows what I’m capable of, especially out of the bulky MEKA, when it’s just me and my sidearm against the world.

“Will you not tell anyone else? Ever?” I try not to let my voice waver again, but it does.

“Right, no, ‘course not, I--” I can practically see the lightbulb go off in her head. That shuts her up quick. Her expression morphs from fear, to understanding, to sympathy, each emotion blossoming fully on her face in turn. I take a breath, deliberately forcing tension out of my shoulders. Now or never, Hana. Make up your mind. I inhale, close my eyes, and screw up the courage I’ve been carefully cultivating for years.

“Lena, I’m gay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I have no plans to continue this.... (I want to get back to my pharmercy fic lol rip me) but if there's a sufficiently good idea for where this could Go from here I might. *Shrugs into the distance*


End file.
